


Moonlight

by electricblueninja



Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Summary: Jang Dongwoo: intern sound engineer by day; busker by night.Kim Myungsoo: White Elephant record label owner/producer.





	1. Chapter 1

‘Thanks again for your time. We’ll be in touch with you in the next week to let you know the results,’ said Kim Myungsoo.

 

‘Thanks,’ said Dongwoo, ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you.’

 

He added a smile, to be friendly, but it seemed that Kim Myungsoo, peering out from behind his glasses, wasn’t the smiling kind—even as Dongwoo tried to smile at him, he was already looking down with a curt nod, pushing his glasses back up his nose, and busying himself needlessly tidying tidy papers.

 

Dongwoo wasn’t even sure that he saw the smile at all.

 

Oh, well. Not important. The important thing was that he’d performed well in the interview.

 

He thanked the panel again, and departed.

 

He thought maybe Kim Myungsoo _did_ look up at him, as he was leaving. Maybe he had seen the smile, and was going to return it? But Dongwoo had already turned away, and was walking through the door, so too late. He experienced a moment’s embarrassment, lest the producer think he had snubbed him, but never mind. It wasn’t as though he had been rude. Just one of those awkward interactions where the timing was slightly off.

 

 

 

Dongwoo really wanted this job. It was a given that he needed the money, but this one was slightly more than _just_ the money—it was one of those rare opportunities where practical know-how and passion actually coincided.

 

He still privately entertained dreams of making it as a musician, but he didn’t take those too seriously. The busking was mostly for fun; it was moonlighting; he just did it on the street, in the evenings. A couple of street corners where he'd go regularly. He certainly didn’t expect to make a living out of it. He just found it satisfying to distract a few passers-by; to make them smile; to magnify the chemistry between people walking arm-in-arm, or maybe kindle that moment for people too shy to do it yet; to provide some sort of auditory comfort to those who were sad, or lonely; let them drift, and maybe make them stop and listen for a while, and hopefully, when they drifted onwards, they would feel better.

 

Yes, singing and making music was its own reward—Dongwoo would go on doing that till the day he died, even if it never earned him a cent.

 

Unfortunately, though, the rules of the real world dictated that he still had to pay his rent, and that was getting tough, as an intern. So he had applied for a job, a paying job, that was actually inthe music industry, but not too far in. Not far enough to rob him of the pleasure of singing in his own time, but far enough to let him utilise his skill set. A paid version of his current internship, which was ending. A job with a small recording studio, called White Elephant, as a sound engineer.

 

Despite his tender years, it was the guy with the glasses, Kim Myungsoo, who was in charge of the whole operation.

 

Dongwoo had already heard of White Elephant before he applied, and so he’d been vaguely familiar with the name Kim Myungsoo, too. After all, Kim Myungsoo had a reputation. Despite beingvery young—slightly younger than Dongwoo, as a matter of fact—he was already well-respected in the industry as an up-and-coming producer. His style was slightly unusual: commercially successful, without being mainstream. His youth and good looks were fairly unusual, too. He looked more like a performer than a producer. Dongwoo had seen photos on media releases, so he’d already known that Kim Myungsoo was one of those guys; tall, dark, and handsome; annoyingly large in all the right places, and symmetrically-featured. But he still wasn’t quite prepared for how imposing he would be in person. He was expecting him to be more of, like, a spoiled little (big) rich kid. Instead, Kim Myungsoo was both confident _and_ polite. What an annoying combination. Dongwoo’s only consolation was that the otherwise-perfect producer seemed slightly awkward.

 

Anyway, the point was, White Elephant was the label of a few artists that Dongwoo really, really liked, like Kim Sunggyu. And it would be such a _perfect_ job for him, to be involved in the sound engineering of music like that. And maybe, if he played his cards right, he could even meet the label artists.

 

And being an intern had paid off, in its own way: he knew the job inside-out, and so hehad been able to answer every question confidently and comfortably. Judging from the nods and expressions of the interviewing panel, things were looking pretty good.

 

As he stepped out into the foyer, past the bar in the lobby, he decided he felt pretty good about the interview.

 

 

 

Exactly one week later, Dongwoo received a call.

 

‘Hello, this is Kim Myungsoo, from White Elephant records. Is this Jang Dongwoo?’

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘Ah, Dongwoo-ssi. Thank you for coming in for the interview last week. We had a couple of follow-up questions. Do you think you would be able to come in for another interview, sometime this week?’

 

Dongwoo could, and said he would, and did.

 

 

 

The second interview seemed to go well, too. There was a fresh array of questions, this time considerably more challenging, but Dongwoo thought that his responses were generally on the mark. There was more nodding from the panel all-round, and he figured it was going pretty well.

 

Right up until the end, when Kim Myungsoo looked him dead in the eye and said, calmly, ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid that you just aren’t quite right for this role.’

 

And…that was that, then. But Dongwoo was genuinely surprised. And from what he could tell, some of the panelists were a little taken aback, too—at least two sets of eyes that were not his darted towards the young producer when he spoke, and there were only six sets of eyes in the room altogether.

 

‘O-Oh,’ he said, trying to disguise his bewilderment, lest he come across as an entitled douchebag. ‘I…I understand.’ _I don’t—I’m perfect for this role. Why…?_ ‘Well…thank you, for considering my application. I hope you find…what you’re looking for.’

 

Thank yous were murmured by everyone around the room, and Dongwoo turned to the door.

 

Kim Myungsoo’s ‘Thank you again for your time’ followed him out of the room, and echoed in his head as he descended to the lobby of the building.

 

There, when he paused to collect his thoughts, he noticedthe bar again, off to the left of the foyer, and after a moment, he shrugged off his hesitation and went in. Drinking might not solve the greater problem of his joblessness, but he felt like he deserved at least a temporary salve for his disappointment.

 

It had all been going so well, though. _Why?_

 

 

 

After about an hour and a half, it occurred to Dongwoo that perhaps he had not thought this through.

 

Perhaps the bar in the foyer of the building of the record label that had just refused to employ him had been a bad place to start drinking.

 

Mostly, this occurred to him because it was now six o’clock in the evening, and people were leaving their workplaces, and some of them—young producers, with glasses—were coming into some bars in foyers of buildings where they worked.

 

He didn’t see Dongwoo, did he?

 

No, he didn’t, but Dongwoo had seen _him_ , and— _No, Dongwoo, don’t do it. Keep your butt on your stool and stay at the bar. Then he won’t_ —

 

The eye contact was worse than Dongwoo had imagined. Recognition, followed by something he could not interpret.

 

Scorn?

 

Pity?

 

_Well, he won’t approach me._

 

And Dongwoo was right—he didn’t approach.

 

Instead, Kim Myungsoo sat a little way down the bar, and ordered a bottle of red.

 

In the end, it was Dongwoo who broke the silence, because he had no self-control, and no common sense, and he just wanted to _know_.

 

‘Hey,’ he said, slightly more aggressively than he'd intended, ‘Mr White Elephant.’

 

Kim Myungsoo turned his head to look at him, his features smooth and impassive.

 

This was somehow inflammatory for Dongwoo, who could not stop himself from scowling.

 

‘Twice,’ he said. He said it a little too loudly, and tried again, more softly. ‘You interviewed me _twice_.’

 

An uncomprehending stare, and then a slow incline of the head—agreement.

 

‘Well,’ he said, not really sure where he was going with this, ‘Why didn’t you hire me?’

 

_Oh. There._

 

He straightened up, sort of turning to face Kim Myungsoo properly, and trying to shake off his mental fog. ‘Why? I answered _every_ question _._ And I’m good. I’d be good. If I’m _not quite right_ , then what am I missing?’

 

Kim Myungsoo was looking back at him, head tilted slightly, with an unreadable look on his stupid inscrutable face.

 

‘Jang Dongwoo-ssi,’ he said, ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’

 

He indicated the bottle of red on the counter.

 

Dongwoo’s rational mind, which said _no,_ was quickly overridden by his drunk mind, which said nothing, but sent a message to his hand to push his glass in Myungsoo’s direction.

 

Myungsoo took it, and calmly passed it back to the barman behind the counter, who replaced it with a clean one.

 

This, he filled with a generous pour of ruby-coloured wine. Then, he got off his stool and brought it over to Dongwoo, setting it down, like a statement. There was a gentle clink as the glass met the marble countertop.

 

He went back the short few paces for his own glass, and the rest of the bottle of wine, and then sat at Dongwoo’s side, pouring one for himself.

 

‘This is going to sound strange,’ he said, ‘But I had an ethical dilemma.’

 

He sipped his drink, and Dongwoo found himself staring at the way the edge of the glassed indented Kim Myungsoo’s lower lip.

 

He shook himself out of the reverie and turned his attention to the wine, sipping it slowly.

 

He didn't know much about wine, but it was nice.

 

‘The thing is, Dongwoo-ssi…You’re right. You’re perfectly qualified for the job. You have the skills, and the experience. It’s just…’

 

He trailed off.

 

After a while, the barman stepped out from behind the counter, and began to move around the bar, collecting empty glasses.

 

This left the two men isolated, in what felt like a little bubble-world, coloured by golden lights that glinted off the reflective surfaces around the space, and shone through the spirits on the shelves.

 

‘I have a rule,’ said Kim Myungsoo, ‘About not sleeping with employees.’

 

Of course, he said this while Dongwoo was drinking, and it made him splutter, and forced him to hastily wipe red wine away from his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

He gaped at Myungsoo, too stunned to speak.

 

‘I’m not saying that we should, or that you have to, or anything, obviously,’ Myungsoo said hurriedly. ‘But I wanted to at least…entertain the possibility.’

 

Ah. It turned out that Kim Myungsoo _could_ smile. And it…it was a _good_ smile, too. He had a dimple, and his eyes crinkled. He was smiling at his glass, though, not at Dongwoo. Perhaps he was embarrassed. His ears were red.

 

‘Oh,’ said Dongwoo. Then, ‘Shit.’

 

Myungsoo looked up at that. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been told I’m lacking in basic social skills.’

 

There was no good way to respond to this either, so Dongwoo just sat there, trying to process what was happening.

 

‘Um,’ said Myungsoo, ‘This is…not going to make it less weird. But.’

 

He paused to refill their glasses, and continued as he set the bottle down. ‘I’ve seen you. Playing.’

 

_Seen me? Playing?_

 

‘You sing really well.’

 

‘Oh.’ Realisation dawned, bright and uncomfortable, contrasting with the dim softness of the bar. ‘ _Oh_.’

 

‘I haven’t been, like, stalking you or anything.’ His ears were getting redder. ‘But there’s that one place you go sometimes, on the corner, by the stream, and that’s kind of…across the street from my apartment. So.’

 

He laughed. The sound was harsh and awkward in the gentle hum of evening. ‘Okay,’ he said, abruptly, ‘There’s your explanation. I think I’m done being creepy now. You should finish the bottle.’

 

Myungsoo began to move away. Leaving—he was leaving; passing behind Dongwoo.

 

It was pure impulse that made Dongwoo reach out, and grab his sleeve.


	2. Chapter 2

For a moment, when Dongwoo grabbed his elbow, Myungsoo thought that things might tun his way.

 

He was wrong, of course.

 

‘Wait a minute,’ said Dongwoo, ‘Are you… _wait_.’ He pulled harder when Myungsoo continued to try to leave; a note of command creeping into his tone.

 

Myungsoo did not meet Dongwoo’s eyes. His gaze rested on Dongwoo’s hand, where it gripped his sleeve. He was burning up with embarrassment, and ready to run.

 

This urge did not diminish when Dongwoo’s voice suddenly grew low, though the new thrum from his vocal cords inspired that strange glimmer of hope—maybe Dongwoo was interested. Maybe…

 

The richly-textured voice was scarcely more than a whisper. It said, ‘I just want to clarify. Are you telling me that I didn’t get the job _because you want to sleep with me?_ ’

 

And, on hearing those words, in that tone, faintly coloured by irritation, or perhaps disgust, Myungsoo knew that his own weird optimism was misplaced. Not that he could blame Dongwoo—he’d probably feel irritated or disgusted too, if their positions were reversed.

 

A vague sense of guilt flooded through him, every bit as hot and uncomfortable as his attraction to Dongwoo, and he tugged his sleeve away. He _did_ feel bad about it. Dongwoo _was_ perfect for the job. But he _couldn’t_ hire a man who would leave him with a semi-permanent erection. It wouldn’t be professional. He _did_ have a rule about not sleeping with employees, and he did _not_ want to torment himself by a) employing someone he wanted to sleep with, thereby b) being in regular close contact with him, thereby c) increasing the likelihood of _trying_ to sleep with him, which would mean d) calling his reputation into question and e) the whole scenario would not be fair on Dongwoo, since although he seemed very competent, Myungsoo would never have any objectivity about it.

 

‘Um,’ he said, unable to think of anything to say except the truth, ‘Yes.’

 

The simplicity of the response belied the detailed thought process that went into it, but he was tongue-tied, and couldn’t say anything else.

 

His eyes flicked upwards long enough to find Dongwoo’s, large and soft and brown, staring back at him, uncomprehending, and he felt compelled to try again to explain himself.

 

‘I can understand if you’re angry,’ he said. ‘But I can’t hire you. It would be wrong of me.’

 

Not that he expected Dongwoo to buy it, and he didn’t.

 

Instead, he released Myungsoo’s arm, picked up his coat, and pushed past him, storming out of the bar. This created more physical contact between them than Myungsoo would have liked—or, well, no, actually, not _enough_ physical contact, and not the right kind, but it left his belly warm and bubbling anyway.

 

He did not move—just stood there, facing the glass—until he saw Dongwoo pass by the window outside.

 

 

 

 

It would have been one thing to never see Dongwoo again, but he still came to the corner across the road from Myungsoo’s fourth-floor penthouse apartment to sing.

 

It was a busy street, and a particularly good spot for busking.

 

In the same way that Myungsoo could not blame Dongwoo for being angry about the reason he’d been turned down for the job, he could hardly reprove him for continuing to frequent a street corner where he’d performed for…How long was it now, anyway?

 

Maybe a year now?

 

It must be. When Dongwoo had first started coming, it had been summer: Myungsoo remembered him setting up under the flowering [crepe myrtles](https://img1.etsystatic.com/013/0/7660668/il_fullxfull.444480409_r6cz.jpg) on the street. The trees had been resplendent with pink flowers, so it must have been before the petals were all knocked down by the rainy season.

 

And the rainy season was due to begin any day now, so it must be almost exactly one year.

 

He came on Fridays, usually, and stayed for an hour or two. On evenings when Myungsoo was home, he would open up the glass doors to his balcony and let the songs waft in. He really did like hearing Dongwoo sing.

 

It had been a couple of weeks since their encounter at the bar. The first Friday afterwards, Dongwoo had not come. Last week, though, he did, and this week, too, though for once it was only a coincidence that Myungsoo lay flaked out on the couch with the windows open, and the watery guitar chords rippled up to his ears through the hot twilight air.

 

Dongwoo’s voice joined, soon—first, a song about the hope and positivity accompanying summer, then a softer song, about simple misunderstandings.

 

Then…

 

Rain.

 

Not a light rain, either, but a monsoonal rain, and Myungsoo was not entirely sure if it was a good idea, but he did it anyway—peeled himself off his couch, and picked up his large black umbrella from where it had been resting by the door.

 

He took the lift downstairs and crossed the marbled foyer. There were no cars, so, moving as quickly as he could, he crossed the road to the long-haired busker’s corner, where Dongwoo was stooped, trying to gather his things together, his urgency making him clumsy.

 

Without speaking, or even thinking, Myungsoo opened the giant umbrella over him.

 

The action suddenly created a silent coccoon, the rain drumming overhead, and Dongwoo turned, and looked up—soft face; full lips; white teeth. Myungsoo had almost forgotten how attractive he was, up close, and had to physically fight the urge to take a step backwards.

 

He held the umbrella so far over Dongwoo that rain fell on his own face from the lip of the black fabric. He could feel the fat, cold drops saturating the back of his black turtleneck.

 

Dongwoo’s expression, first of gratitude, faltered and became one of careful neutrality as he straightened up and realised who it was. They stared at each other in silence for a moment.

 

‘I just came to help,’ said Myungsoo, at the same time as Dongwoo said, ‘I’m sorry for last time.’

 

Another silence, made of hesitation and awkwardness.

 

‘I hope the job hunt is going okay,’ he added.

 

‘It’s not that you’re not attractive,’ said Dongwoo, simultaneously.

 

This time, the silence was so heavy it was almost palpable, and, as though sensing the tension and trying to prevent a combustion, the rain became a downpour.

 

‘You’re getting wet,’ said Dongwoo, finding a spare fingertip to brush back a dampened strand of hair from his face, though still laden with guitar and case and small amplifier and miscellaneous things.

 

Myungsoo was, in fact, drenched, but only vaguely aware of his black jeans clinging damply to his butt.

 

He was too busy being very, _very_ aware of the glistening droplets of water resting on Dongwoo’s cheeks, and creating a shining constellation on his collarbone, exposed by the deep scoop-neck of his brightly-coloured singlet. Drips traced lines down his bare shoulders and arms, too.

 

Despite the clear, cool, torrential rain, it was hot out.

 

‘Did you want to come in and wait it out…?’ Myungsoo asked, holding a hand up to indicate the weather.

 

Though uneasily, Dongwoo inclined his head in agreement.

 

They retraced Myungsoo’s steps: he held the umbrella over Dongwoo as they crossed the street; moved through the marble foyer, where Myungsoo shook the umbrella off and closed it; into the lift, where he took the amp from Dongwoo’s hand, since it was the side closest to him; into the apartment, where he indicated that Dongwoo’s gear could be put by the door.

 

Dongwoo was distracted, though, gazing around the spacious interior of the flat with a look of wonder.

 

Myungsoo interrupted his reverie to take the rest of his stuff from him and set it down by the door, and Dongwoo looked to him wonderingly.

 

‘Do you _own_ this?’

 

‘My father’s,’ said Myungsoo, with a shrug. His family’s wealth was a source of some discomfort. ‘Let me get you a towel.’

 

He was in the process of doing so when Dongwoo’s soft voice attracted his attention.

 

‘Um…Myungsoo-ssi…why do you own… _this_?’

 

He turned around to find Dongwoo staring through the door into his bedroom, which he habitually left open.

 

Only

 

there was a set of handcuffs

 

in full view

 

on the tallboy.

 

Myungsoo felt his mouth go drier than the towel he was now holding.

 

‘Um,’ he echoed absently, ‘Er.’

 

Dongwoo’s gaze lifted slowly from the cuffs to Myungsoo’s face.

 

‘What do you use those for?’ The innocent expression was utterly false—that much was readily apparent, because Myungsoo could see the pulse in his pale throat start to flutter like a trapped butterfly.

 

He wasn’t expecting the slow smirk that spread across Dongwoo’s face though.

 

It was sly, and merciless.

 

A shiver ran down his spine, and he knew it was not because of his wet shirt.

 

He made a few incoherent noises, and then gave up.

 

Handing Dongwoo the towel, he crossed the space to close the bedroom door.

 

As he grabbed the handle and began to turn it, pulling the door towards himself, his hand was suddenly engulfed by Dongwoo’s.

 

A warm body seemed to press against him from behind.

 

Myungsoo swallowed, hard, and closed his eyes.

 

He waited a moment, to make sure that this was real; that he wasn’t suffering a sensory hallucination.

 

No, it was real. He could feel Dongwoo’s exhalations, warm on his shoulder, and Dongwoo’s free hand was now resting on his ribcage, on his other side.

 

‘Mr White Elephant,’ said the soft voice at his shoulder, ‘I had no idea.’

 

Myungsoo turned his head enough so that their eyes met. He could feel his embarrassment manifest in the usual way: turning his ears red.

 

His heart was beginning to climb up his chest, making its way into his throat; its vibrations shook him.

 

‘Look, when I invited you up—I didn’t mean—you don’t have to—’

 

A serious expression came over Dongwoo’s features. He tilted his head slightly at Myungsoo’s mumbling, though he did not break eye contact.

 

Myungsoo plowed ahead, inasmuch as awkward muttering could be called that.

 

‘...I figured that you hated me. After…you know. And it makes sense, if you hate me. So I…’

 

Dongwoo was beginning to frown, now.

 

His hand, resting on Myungsoo’s side, lifted a little, though he did not withdraw entirely.

 

‘I don’t hate you, Kim Myungsoo,’ he said. ‘I was mad at you for a bit, but I’m over it now. I decided to take it as a compliment. And…’ —Myungsoo felt the pressure of Dongwoo’s hand on his pushing the bedroom door back open— ‘Thanks for the drink. Maybe we could do that again, sometime.’

 

The door open now, and Myungsoo going through on autopilot. He tried to backpedal, turning around to protest the ridiculous scenario again, but came face-to-face with his visitor, whose general beauty, purity mixed with sin, rendered him speechless.

 

Dongwoo smiled his genuine, pure smile, looked towards the floor-to-ceiling glass windows into the rain, and said, ‘Are you okay with it? I mean, I’m okay with it. And...’ His knuckles brushed over the wrinkled denim at the top of Myungsoo’s thigh. ‘I’m sorry you got all wet on my account.’

 

Myungsoo sucked in air through his teeth at the touch.

 

‘Did you know,’ Dongwoo added, conversationally, ‘that I’m older than you? So...you can call me hyung, you know, if you want to.’

 

It was slightly more than that. It was a gentle encouragement for Myungsoo to do as Dongwoo told him to.

 

He protested feebly, grabbing Dongwoo’s hand to stop those fingers progressing any closer to the cause of his embarrassment, but Dongwoo’s whispered ‘It’s okay’ was sweet, and his smile was wicked, and Myungsoo moved his lips forward to meet Dongwoo’s mouth, and signed on for sin.

 

Dongwoo fumbled for the handcuffs. They clinked as he managed to grab them from the sideboard; one swinging loose and hitting Myungsoo’s thigh with not-unpleasant impact. Dongwoo’s lips were every bit as soft and pliant as they looked, and Myungsoo whined a little as Dongwoo pulled away, pushing Myungsoo’s chest and edging him back towards the bed.

 

Myungsoo moved as Dongwoo’s fingers commanded, falling backwards onto the mattress when the backs of his knees hit the bedframe.

 

Dongwoo stood over him, holding the cuffs up, cocking one magnificent eyebrow.

 

‘So. When was the last time you used these?’

 

Myungsoo shook his head. ‘Don’t know.’

 

A playful smile. ‘But they were right here. In full view.’

 

‘I don’t really...have people over.’

 

Dongwoo pouted as he considered this. His pillowy mouth was so inviting that Myungsoo made to sit up to kiss him again, but Dongwoo put his socked right foot up on the bed, and used his left hand to keep him at bay.

 

‘Uh-uh,’ he said. ‘Shirt off. Don’t go making the bed all wet.’

 

Myungsoo bit back a retort along the lines of how that was going to happen anyway, and did as he’d been told, peeling the wet black cloth from his skin while Dongwoo watched approvingly, still standing over him, still holding the cuffs distended, like a promise, or delayed gratification.

 

An instructive flick of the hot, smiling eyes had Myungsoo shucking his pants as well, chucking them unceremoniously onto the floor. Dongwoo never moved while he undressed; his torso scant centimetres from Myungsoo’s face when he extricated himself from his jeans.

 

Mission complete, Myungsoo sat back and looked up expectantly.

 

Dongwoo, however, looked bemused.

 

‘Underwear too,’ he said, placidly.

 

Those, too, met the floor.

 

‘And now?’

 

‘Now,’ said Dongwoo, ‘Lie down.’

 

Myungsoo, nervous now that he was naked and exposed, began to talk. It was one of his bad habits. The other was falling silent and not saying anything at all, but today was apparently the talkative kind of nerves.

 

‘It...they’re kind of a joke, actually, the cuffs,’ he said, ‘I did my service in the police force, and—’

 

Dongwoo listened attentively, but also climbed over Myungsoo’s naked body, himself still fully clothed. The material of his jeans was rough as he straddled Myungsoo’s abdomen. He took his arms and held them overhead. Then, he fed the chain of the cuffs through the bedhead—Myungsoo heard the clinking—and locked them.

 

‘—what I mean is, they’re not, like, a sex thing, I mean, I’ve never—I just—’

 

‘What’s your safe-word?’

 

‘I mean, I’ve never, and it’s been a really long time since I even—’

 

Dongwoo silenced him with his lips.

 

The kiss was long, and slow, and deep. Myungsoo’s head was swimming and his body full of treacle by the time Dongwoo pulled away.

 

‘Your safe-word,’ the older man prompted, gently. ‘If you want me to let you out of them.’

 

A voice in his mind: _I won’t. I like it here. I’ll stay here for good._ And another: _Where did that come from?_

 

‘It can’t be my name,’ Dongwoo added, his eyes, already like chocolate, somehow darkening more. He leaned forward to place his lips next to Myungsoo’s ear. Outside, the rain began to drum against the glass, but his words were still crystal clear: ‘You’ll be calling that for other reasons.’

 

Myungsoo, floored by lust, choked out, ‘Red wine?’, and he felt Dongwoo grin, rather than seeing it.

 

‘Alright.’

 

Dongwoo sat back, and pulled his singlet off over his head.

 

One of his hands, perhaps slightly more adventurous than the other, began to walk its fingers from Myungsoo’s hipbone up towards his chest, where one fingertip very delicately traced a line around his nipple.

 

Myungsoo groaned softly, his back arching and a ripple of gooseflesh spreading over his side. He had closed his eyes when Dongwoo’s fingers began their venture, but now, he opened them again, to look up at his benign and smiling captor.

 

Dongwoo was vfit. His body was the body of a dancer (which, as Myungsoo would later discover, was indeed among his many skills, and gave him remarkable flexibility): lean and taut and muscular. His shoulders were structurally broad; his chest sculpted and his stomach solid, the skin stretched tight over the musculature beneath. Something about the way his mouth moved made Myungsoo want to watch him eat, but he moved on quickly from this unexpected species of perversion, since other perversions were more readily at hand. Specifically, Dongwoo had gotten to his feet to stand over him on the bed, wavering slightly, toes curling into the mattress at Myungsoo’s sides to keep his balance. His tight dark jeans were coming off, and the underwear with them.

 

Myungsoo savoured the sight of Dongwoo’s legs, the coverage of coarse dark hairs, darker than his dyed hair, thickening slightly up his inner thighs until the dark curls nestled intimately around the base of his half-hard cock. He imagined the subtle sensation of the rough hair curling around his fingers, if he were to touch him, to get him harder; Dongwoo, for his part, now touched himself, confident fingers slipping through the curls for thumb and forefinger to form a loop, and beginning to move along the hardening length, softly softly, a little huff of pleasure or excitement escaping from his full lips as his eyes latched with Myungsoo’s and did not let go.

 

Myungsoo found himself with a dry mouth again. ‘I need water,’ he whispered, hoarsely.

 

Dongwoo disengaged his hand from his dick to come down, on all fours, over Myungsoo’s body again, cock brushing Myungsoo’s abdomen. He wrapped cruelly careful fingers around Myungsoo’s now-straining erection, and moved them just so.

 

Not enough.

 

Myungsoo whimpered, braced his feet against the mattress, and began to push upwards into Dongwoo’s hand, but no sooner did he do so than the hand was gone, and so was Dongwoo, leaving the word ‘Water’ hanging in the silence of the bedroom.

 

A few seconds later, he returned, with a glass of water, a straw, and a smirk.

 

He helped Myungsoo sip from the glass, using the tips of his middle and index finger to hold the straw still and press it to Myungsoo’s lips, his fingernails a slightly sharp pressure against the soft flesh, before setting the glass aside.

 

‘Thanks.’

 

‘No problem. You’re gonna need to be hydrated.’

 

 _Still not sure if angel or devil_.

 

‘Where do you keep your…?’

 

‘Bedside table. Drawer.’

 

Dongwoo’s hands were gentle but sure as they rolled the condom down over Myungsoo’s reddening dick; his palm firm and warm and wet as he slathered him to the point of dripping. Then, he turned around, and pushed Myungsoo’s legs flat against the matress.On his knees, he slid his lube-slick hand between his thighs, and pushed a finger deep into his own asshole.

 

He shifted his weight back gently as he did, so that Myungsoo’s hard-on rested lightly between his full, round ass-cheeks, and benefited from the movement of his fingers.

 

He also reached back with his free hand, and began, tenderly, playfully, to toy with Myungsoo’s balls.

 

Myungsoo let out a shaky breath.

 

The bedframe creaked as he tensed up under Dongwoo’s touch.

 

Outside, the rain; inside, the wet sounds of two then three fingers easing in and out of Dongwoo’s body.

 

Then no fingers.

 

Myungsoo pushed his head back so that he could rest it on his pillow and truly appreciate the sight of Dongwoo’s ass; the way the muscle bounced against his dick when he wriggled it. _That_ , his mind marvelled contentedly , _is going in there_ , and indeed it was, because Dongwoo was reaching between his own thighs again, to take hold of Myungsoo’s cock. When it slipped from the fingers of one hand, too slick for purchase, he used both.

 

He lowered himself onto it with a long, soft moan, and Myungsoo’s entire sensory awareness suddenly occupied only one inch or so of his body: the inch currently encompassed by Dongwoo. The inch that was warm, and being pulled softly _in—_ so, two inches now, and three. Dongwoo began to rock his hips; a gentle undulation; in and out, in and out, and _in_.

 

Myungsoo gasped out some kind of expletive, fighting the urge to rise against Dongwoo’s movements. Hard metal bit into his wrists, and the bedframe protested. Dongwoo laughed, breathlessly, and sighed with pleasure, bracing against the bed and dropping down low, low, low onto Myungsoo’s cock.

 

Myungsoo watched, entranced by Dongwoo’s tiny waist, and the rippling muscles of his back, and the way his torso widened out into those broad, strong shoulders. He wanted to take hold of those hips, and see his fingers biting into the muscle. He wanted—

 

Dongwoo’s breathing was becoming irregular; little whimpers in his throat. He eased off Myungsoo’s dick andturned around. When they were face-to-face, his hands, wet from the lube, slipped over Myungsoo’s stomach and chest, seeking purchase. Failing that, he pushed Myungsoo down into the mattress with most of his considerable strength, and, with this new leverage, pushed harder and deeper, screwing himself onto Myungsoo’s cock in a way that had them both sweating and panting in the humid night; harder and faster, until, as Dongwoo had promised, Myungsoo heard himself saying Dongwoo’s name, over and over again; faster and deeper until it felt like Myungsoo’s soul was actually getting sucked from his body in the form of the cum coursing through his cock. When it came, his orgasm wracked his body. Every muscle strained. The cuffs clanged against the bedhead, and the frame screeched like it might actually break.

 

In the aftermath, against the backdrop of the rain, Dongwoo laughedhis soft, breathless laughter again. ‘Mr White Elephant…You look incredible,’ he whispered. Their eyes met in the twilight, and though Dongwoo’s smile was gentle, his eyes were wild; his face flushed; dick throbbing where it rested on Myungsoo’s stomach.

 

‘Finish on me,’ Myungsoo whispered. He felt his ears go red, but when he looked up, Dongwoo’s expression was pure lust. Another shuddering breath escaped him. He shifted onto his knees obediently, his cock over Myungsoo’s face, moving over the translucent, reddened skin with slippery urgency.

 

Myungsoo closed his eyes, and felt Dongwoo’s hot, sticky cum slide across his cheeks and chin. He moaned softly at the lewdness of it, his voice harmonising with Dongwoo’s, and when he opened his eyes again it was to see Dongwoo gazing down at him with something close to reverence.

 

The keys were retrieved from the bedside table, and Myungsoo’s wrists freed, but not before Dongwoo kissed his lips--once gently; once deep. 

 

With his hands free, Myungsoo returned it, stroking Dongwoo's hair, which was still damp, but now from sweat rather than rain. Then he realised what he was doing, and wrinkled his nose.

 

'Sorry. Shower?' he suggested, reaching for a tissue and dabbing at the mess on his face.

 

Dongwoo smiled smugly at him. 'Don't be in such a rush. You look even better like that.'

 

Myungsoo hit him for that, but not hard.

'Yeah, yeah. Okay. Shower.'

 

 

 

By the time the rainstorm passed, it was two days later, and Dongwoo was yet to leave.

**Author's Note:**

> (Ew. Job interviews. I had one. It sucked. But I do feel a little better now that I've put more PWP into the internet. Thanks, Encouraging Friend, for suggesting this scenario as a way of dealing with the trauma XDD)


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